Westward Bound
by AnneWithane
Summary: Lt. Barkley had served his time in the Army and was finally headed home. A brief glimpse into his thoughts during the journey.


Four years with Johnson…Pioneer Ridge

Westward Bound

He had no idea the country was _this_ big. Endless miles of scenery rolled by the train window as the iron giant rumbled steadily, noisily westward – toward _home._ Why hadn't he noticed all this land on the way east four years ago? He shook his head.

All he could remember about the trip to muster in with the other Union forces was the anticipation and excitement he had felt. There had been three dozen boys from the valley headed east as part of a newly formed California regiment. Jed Mason had brought his harmonica and kept the group engaged in song for much of the trip, and there had been spirited rounds of poker enhanced by the fifth of scotch he had smuggled out of his father's study before he left home. The trip to headquarters had seemed to pass in a flash. The trip home seemed to be taking forever.

Maybe it was because this was the first time in years he had sat still for such a stretch of time. He supposed that the trip east had probably not been quite as carefree as he had believed it to be at the time. The young men on the train had been eager to join the fighting, eager to fight for their country and a cause they believed to be just. The South had no right to enslave people, had no right to try to break up the Union, and if it was a fight they wanted, it was a fight they would get.

He had not been the only recruit on the train following an older brother into the fray. His brother had been gone for more than a year before he himself had been old enough to enlist. The letters Jarrod sent home, though infrequent, were full of his usual wit and passion. His brother held an unshakable belief that the war would be won, because it _must_ be won, a belief that came across as a living thing in his written words.

He had watched his father's face beam with pride as he read Jarrod's letters aloud at the dinner table. He had watched his sister's eyes shine with the fervor of her imagination as she no doubt pictured herself in the middle of her older brother's adventures. He had also watched his mother's expression cloud with conflicted emotion – the juxtaposition of a mother's pride clashing with a mother's fear for her child. He thought he had some idea how she had felt, but the supposition hadn't stopped him from signing up just as soon as he had come of age. He had felt the warm glow of his father's approval all the way to camp – it had crowded out of his mind the guilt he felt for the tears welling in his mother's eyes as he stepped aboard the train with the other recruits.

A cool, damp breeze blew through the car when a couple opened the door and stepped into the aisle before finding a seat a few rows away. The breeze felt like cloying fingers sapping the warmth from his skin as they sneaked their way down his neck past the collar of his uniform jacket. He pulled the collar as tightly as he could against him, but it was no use. He had lost too much weight over the last few years. Too many months in unspeakable conditions, witnessing unspeakable things had eaten away at his body, his strength, his youth, his unquestioning belief in the high-sounding words of commanders and politicians that had pulled so many boys like him away from home and into a living hell the likes of which he knew somewhere deep in his bones he would never ever be able to truly forget.

He thought about some of those words as he sat staring out the window, letting his mind carry him back in time to another place. It had been a crisp November day, the threat of snow on the horizon as it often was at that time of year in the eastern states. As jaded as he considered himself by that time, it had been somewhat awe inspiring to see the President climb up the stairs, cross the makeshift stage to stand before the podium.

He had been surprised when the President started to speak. Surely a man of his stature sounded a little more…imposing…than President Lincoln did that day. Weren't lawyers supposed to be gifted orators by nature? To hear Jarrod tell it, they were. The voice drifting to his ears on the morning breeze had been thin, reedy, but the words had been heavy with importance. Or was it self-importance?

"_Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation: conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men were created equal."_

'_Who cares?'_ That was what he remembered thinking during the president's opening statement. As excited as he had been initially when the word had come down that President Lincoln was coming to Gettysburg to make a special address, he realized that what he needed most at that moment was not a high-sounding speech. He and his men needed food, and supplies – better blankets, tents without holes in them, horses with enough meat on their frames to carry a man out of trouble. He shivered. If things were this bad for them, they had to be ten times worse for those on the opposite side.

Come to think of it, he thought that being able to see an end to this madness would be great too, better even than fresh supplies or horses. But he knew better than to hold his breath, or to let on to any of the men standing around him what he was thinking. He owed them more than that. He also knew he wasn't alone in his thoughts. When he had the luxury of self-indulgence, he might give in to the urge to sit down and have a good, decidedly unmanly, cry. But not just then. There had been too much to do yet.

"_We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this."_

'_Fitting and proper?'_ Really? Fitting that so many boys lay dead in the earth beneath their feet, their lives cut short before they really had a chance to begin? _'Fitting and_ _proper'_ that for each of those boys, and for each of the boys that lay slowly dying in field hospitals throughout the south, there was a family somewhere mourning the loss of one held dear? Or not even knowing yet that bad news was on the way? Could the dedication of a field, the marking of a mere fraction of the graves scattered throughout the countryside, even begin to be a _'fitting and proper'_ way to mark what had happened here?

He knew that the man on the podium, who seemed a good man, who seemed to struggle with the cares of the nation that was his to shepherd, could never know what he knew. Could never know that the men and boys resting under their feet and all around them were not just numbers. They were the sons, brothers, fathers, friends of people who knew them and mourned them in ways known and yet to be discovered. They were children who used to run through fields, farmers who sweated and prayed to scratch a living out of the dirt, who had once been babes in the arms of mothers and fathers who dreamed big, bright futures for them. Futures robbed by war, cut short long before their due. Dreams that would never be fulfilled. Grandchildren who would never be born.

"_It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us…that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion…"_

'_The last full measure of devotion…'_ Indeed. It sounded good, and he had agreed with the principle, but he couldn't swallow past the knowledge that Jacob Taylor's mother would have vastly preferred his giving his _'last full measure of devotion'_ to his family than to a cause that had never touched them on their small farm in the Nebraska territory. Instead, Jake had taken a bullet meant for him. Jake's dying breath had been a request to give a letter kept in his chest pocket to his wife. Jake's wife had taken the heartfelt apology he had delivered with the letter and hurled them back at him with angry invectives. He hadn't blamed her. He couldn't begin to. What did he know of a young woman forced to face the world by herself with a new baby to feed and no one to help her? What right did he have to be more or less healthy and whole, on his way home to the bosom of his family while so many would never be so lucky?

Thinking about Jake's letter and all the questions for which he had no answers always made him reach for the small packet he kept neatly folded and tied together in his jacket. No matter how bad things had gotten, he had kept the few precious letters from home tucked into the pocket closest to his heart. He had written a letter similar to the one Jake had written. Most of them had. When he had finally been discharged and started preparing for the long journey home, he had taken his last letter out, intending to throw it into the fire, but had found himself unable to let it go. He didn't understand why, but the envelope seemed determined not to leave his hand. So he added it to his precious bundle and tied the bunch neatly with a piece of twine.

He reached into his coat and pulled out the stack, repeating once again what had become a habitual gesture in his search for some comfort among the chaos. He let his fingers find a random letter, and unfolded the worn creases as his eyes focused on words that had served as a lifeline to him more times than he could count.

_Dear Son,_

_You must know how proud I am – how proud we all are – of your courage and your willingness to answer the call to arms in our nation's hour of need. I know I didn't say so before you left, but I am thankful every day for the son I raised and the man you've become._

_Never forget who you are or that your family loves you._

_Godspeed, Nick._

_With fondest affection,_

_Your Father_

He smiled, remembering the way his chest had swelled with pride the day he had received that letter, the way his tent mates had nodded and grinned their approval when he had read the letter out to them.

It had been a ritual among the men in his regiment throughout their service together. Whenever anyone got a letter from home, it would inevitably be read aloud by the light of a late night fire. Their favorites had been letters from wives or sweethearts, especially when a soldier had stopped while reading, blushed, and skipped over the best parts to the parts that were deemed more socially acceptable. The men would entertain themselves for days by offering their own interpretations of what the censored sections might have said. He folded his father's letter and took out another.

_Dearest Nick,_

_I hope this letter finds you well and hearty. Things are just fine at the ranch – your father misses all the help you have always been to him, as well as the boundless energy you always put into your work; but he is managing fairly well. I know he looks forward, as we all do, to the day when the war will be over and you will once again be home with your family._

_You might not recognize us when you return. Your father has put on weight, and I have gone completely gray over the last year since you left home. Audra is growing like a colt. She is still in pigtails but nearly my height already. I feel certain she will be tall like you and your father. It is a great comfort to me to know that between the lot of you, I will never lack for help reaching the items on the highest shelves in the kitchen. She says to tell you that she misses you, and that she is keeping Coco exercised and fit for you while you are away from home. It is entirely likely that he will be so spoiled and fat by the time you return that he will be of no use to you whatsoever on the range._

_We received a letter from Jarrod last week. He reports – much to our relief, as you can imagine – that he has finally shaken that long bout of pneumonia. He has been reassigned as an aide to the Secretary of War in Washington. It seems you were right – your brother appears destined for a career in law and politics. He also reports that the work is both challenging and stimulating; but the weather has been terrible. I hope that it has been better for you than it was when you wrote your last letter to us._

_We had some sad news from Mrs. Wheeler this afternoon. Her eldest son, Zach, was among the fallen at Bull Run. Her second son, Karl, is headed toward Pennsylvania as well. You might look him up if you have the chance. Mrs. Wheeler and I thought it might bring you both a little comfort to spend some time with someone from home. I pray…Oh!… just be careful, my darling._

_I love you so much._

_Mother_

He swallowed past the lump in his throat, gruffly passing a hand across his eyes before quickly folding the letter and re-securing his precious bundle. What he wanted more than anything in the world was for the conductor to get on with it already and get him back to Stockton. Back home. As he tried to remember how it felt to sleep in his very own bed, strains of a familiar tune drifted through his mind. It was a song Private Hastings had gotten from a friend in a different regiment, a song that quickly spread from camp to camp as the war had staggered to its end. The words had grabbed his attention the first time he had heard them, and he had recited them to himself over and over during bitter days.

"_We're tenting tonight on the old campground_

_Give us a song to cheer_

_Our weary hearts: a song of home_

_And friends we love so dear._

_We've been tenting tonight on the old campground_

_Thinking of days gone by._

_Of the loved ones at home who gave us the hand_

_And the tear that said goodbye._

_We're tired of war on the old campground_

_Many are dead and gone_

_Of the brave and true who left their homes_

_Others been wounded long._

_We've been fighting today on the old campground_

_Many are lying near._

_Some are dead. Some are dying._

_Many are in tears._

_Many are the hearts that are weary tonight_

_Wishing for the war to cease_

_Many are the hearts looking for the right_

_To see the dawn of peace._

_Tenting tonight, tenting tonight,_

_Tenting on the old campground._

_Dying tonight, dying tonight,_

_Dying on the old campground."_

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts and his song that he was barely aware the train had pulled to a halt. He let his gaze continue to drift over the flat landscape, as dull and lusterless to look at as he felt he had become on the inside. A dim corner of his mind registered the fact that the train had started to move again, as well as the fact that low, gray clouds had started to gather on the horizon. It looked like rain. Perfect. He was too involved in his melancholy to notice footsteps approach, and then stop.

"Nick?"

He sighed, turning to discover who had interrupted his malaise. The young man standing next to him was thin and pale, a little too thin and a little too pale. But as he looked up into the man's face, he knew that his surprise would be just as obvious as the shock and delight on the face of the man before him.

"Jarrod!" Before his brother could respond, he stood, wrapping his arms around him and squeezing for all he was worth.

"You're too thin, brother Nick," Jarrod managed to wheeze as he returned the crushing embrace.

"Me? A man gets one good cold, and now look at you! Mother will have you confined to bed for a month while she force feeds you every fattening thing she can think of."

"I'll take it," Jarrod said without hesitation. Jarrod plucked at the loose collar of his jacket. "By the looks of you, you could use a little force-feeding yourself."

He grinned in response, regaining his seat so his brother could sit next to him. He noticed the woman sitting a few rows behind them watching them, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief as she smiled at them. He wondered how long it would be before he felt like he could be in a room and expect that whoever else was in there with him didn't have a war-related story to tell. He didn't want to talk about it anymore. What he wanted more than just about anything was to go home, put on his civilian clothes, and hide his uniform in the very back of his wardrobe. He shrugged off the thought, concentrating on Jarrod's face and decided to force his thoughts onto a different track. "I'm lookin' forward to a nice thick steak, about three inches thick, to be exact."

Jarrod smiled, joy spreading all the way into the blue eyes he and their sister had inherited from their father. "That sounds just about right," he agreed.

"It'll be good to be home. How long as it been since you've been back?" he asked.

"Two and half years," Jarrod answered. "I've only been home once since I enlisted. You?"

He shook his head. "Haven't been back since I left home about four years ago. I didn't know you were coming back today. How did you…?"

Jarrod smiled. "I didn't. I've signed up for one more year at the request of Colonel Grierson, but I'll be closer to home. I'm going to be in the western territories with the new 10th Cavalry regiment. The Colonel is having a hard time finding white officers who will support the initiative, so I couldn't turn him down. I don't have to report for a month, though, so I wanted to come home and tell Mother and Father myself. I didn't know you'd be on the train, but…" He paused, his expression growing soft as he gazed at his brother. "I'm glad. It's good to see you, Nick."

"You too, Pappy," he replied, gripping his brother at the shoulder. He smiled as he imagined the scene. "I can just picture Mother's face when we both climb off the train at the depot. She'll be very happily surprised to see you."

Jarrod nodded, glancing past him to watch the scenery roll by. "I hear Audra's gotten tall."

He grinned in reply. "And Coco's gotten fat."

Jarrod laughed. "Well, I'm sure you'll have him back in shape in no time."

He shrugged a shoulder, but had nothing to add, not feeling entirely up to idle chitchat.

"I'll be glad when this last year is up," Jarrod continued after a moment.

"Are you planning to come home, or go back to Washington?"

Jarrod shook his head, an uncustomarily shaggy hank of black hair falling across his forehead and into his eyes. He reflexively brushed it back out of his face as he answered. "Oh no. I've had enough of the rest of the world for a while. I plan to come home and spend the rest of my life with cattle."

"What?" He guffawed. "You? Mess up those lily white hands of yours?"

His brother smirked at him, obviously not minding the ribbing. It was an old joke between them. "Will the steers shoot at me?"

"Nope," he said as he shook his head, propping one booted foot against the top of the bench in front of him.

"Then I love 'em," Jarrod assured him with a slap to his shoulder.

He laughed. "I wouldn't have thought it'd take a war to finally break you in to ranch life, Jarrod."

"Some of us are slow studies," his brother shrugged good naturedly.

He laughed again. "You said it, not me."

They sat in silence for a while, both of them staring out at the landscape. He felt a small smile creep its way across his lips, more thankful than he could say to have his brother beside him. He noticed the sun had peeked back out between the clouds.

"What do we say?" He asked softly.

"What do you mean?"

"What do we say when we get home? What do we tell them? How do we go back to the way things were? I'm not that person any more. Are you?"

He didn't even have to look over at his brother to feel him shake his head. "I don't know, Nick. We'll just take it one day at a time and do the best we can until being home feels normal again."

He nodded, letting the silence stretch back out around them once more.

After a few minutes, it was Jarrod who spoke. "Do you ever feel guilty?"

"About what?" He could give several answers to that question, but wasn't sure of Jarrod's meaning.

"Guilty to be coming home, when so many won't be."

"Oh yeah," he said quietly. "I've been making lists of all the things I wanna see and do when I get there…ride the whole length of the North Ridge, sleep late for a week, eat everything I can get Mother to make for me," he paused, revisiting thoughts that had been haunting him for months. "Then I think about the Miller brothers. There were three of them, all assigned to our unit. None of them made it. The general made a special trip to see their folks. It just seems…" he stopped, not having the words to finish his thought.

Jarrod reached over and gripped his elbow. "I know, Nick. I know. Me too."

A heavy silence surrounded them for a long moment before Jarrod's quiet voice rose to his ears once more. "We'll just take it one day at a time," he repeated as though trying to convince himself as much as his brother.

"Yeah," he agreed softly. "One day at a time."

Memorial Day Sonnet

We're here to honor those who went to war

Who did not wish to die, but did die, grievously,

In eighteen sixty-one and in two-thousand four

Though they were peaceable as you or me.

Young and innocent, they knew nothing of horror –

Singers and athletes, and all in all well-bred.

Their sergeants, mercifully, made them into warriors,

And at the end, they were moving straight ahead.

As we look at these headstones, row on row on row,

Let us see them as they were, laughing and joking,

On that bright irreverent morning long ago.

And once more, let our hearts be broken.

God have mercy on them for their heroic gift.

May we live the good lives they would have lived.

Disclaimer: The characters and events you recognize are not my inventions, and are borrowed with respect for a brief creative exercise.

A/N: I don't have a comprehensive list of war experiences for any of the Barkley brothers. I've tried to stick to cannon, but please consider yourself forewarned that there may be discrepancies. The lyrics are from "Tenting Tonight," by Walter F. Kittredge (1864). The speech was Lincoln's at Gettysburg (1863). The sonnet is "Memorial Day Sonnet," by Garrison Keillor (2004).

Thanks: To Miss Raye, for acting as both beta-reader and expert on all things Civil War related (including sweet tea sutleries). I have no idea what I'd do withoutcha, darlin'.

Dedication: To Ed and LeRoy, both WWII vets and my grandfathers. And to Mark, and everyone else wearing a uniform. There are simply no words to thank them properly for what they do.


End file.
